


Parlez-vous Français?

by Kitty_Kinneas



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 06:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1499924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty_Kinneas/pseuds/Kitty_Kinneas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve believes Tony doesn't understand French. This leads to a lot of honesty Steve is completely unaware of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parlez-vous Français?

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing Winter Soldier for the second time, I came home raving to my best-Tony about how both Steve and Tony apparently speak French. She told me she had this thing in her head. So I wrote the thing. And here it is. Enjoy.

From the very first time it happened, Tony figured out what was going on. He wasn't entirely sure _how_ it happened, but it was clear that Steve had somehow _completely missed_ the fact that Tony could speak French just as well, if not better, than he could. Tony couldn't figure it out. Even if he'd never actually spoken French around Steve, surely the man's super soldier brain would have come to the conclusion that someone like Tony, who flew all over the world brokering deals and/or showing off would speak several languages.

 

Apparently not.

 

It was after a particularly heavy battle, the first time. Some giant, radioactive snake-like thing had taken up residence in the northern end of Central Park. And in this case, 'giant' meant apocalyptically  _huge_ . No one had even been able to able to dent the sucker, until Tony decided the best option was to collapse the section of subway between the Central Park North and 96 th Street stations.

 

Naturally, he'd asked permission from exactly no one, and Steve had been  _pissed_ . He'd spouted off his usual schtick about duty and responsibility and blah blah. Tony had taken it all, then calmly pointed out that if they hadn't stopped the creature there, it would have killed thousands – maybe millions – and the subways had been clear anyway.

 

He'd distinctly heard Natasha say to Clint; “A hundred says he punches him this time.” And Clint's response; “You're so fucking on, Romanaov. He  _never_ does.”

 

Then, just as distinctly, he'd heard their dearly beloved Captain (only that wasn't hard because he was right in Tony's face) snarl in  _French_ ;

 

“ _Fuck you, asshat.”_

 

Then he'd turned on his heel and stalked out.

 

Of  _course_ he realised straight away that Steve thought he'd had no idea what he said. And he didn't bother to enlighten the Captain, because naturally a person was more likely to say things when they thought they weren't being understood.

 

And boy, did he ever. He cussed like a sailor and made acerbic comments regarding  _pretty much everyone's_ behaviour, but especially Tony's. Straight to his face he called him fifty different things and then some, all the while thinking Tony had no idea.

 

And it was probably kind of perverse that Tony let it go on, but he  _liked_ the honesty. He  _liked_ knowing that Captain Perfect got frustrated and angry just like everyone else, and that he thought nasty things about people, just like everyone else. It made Tony feel... at least a little less inadequate beside him.

 

Then one day, the flavour of Steve's peculiar brand of not-really-honesty changed. Tony thought to begin with that he'd misheard or misinterpreted or – far more likely – completely imagined it.

 

It started innocently enough. They were even being companionable for once...

 

\- - - - - - -

 

He's so not a morning person. He just isn't. He flails blearily at the light Jarvis is allowing through the massive windows, and swears at him until he stops talking about the weather and the surf conditions. He isn't going to get up. Tells Jarvis, in fact, that he is going back to sleep. But then Jarvis speaks music to Tony's hungover ears;

 

“Captain Rogers is making pancakes, Sir.”

 

“Fuck, yes,” he groans, because as irritating and self-righteous as Steve might be, he seriously makes the best pancakes in the freaking universe.

 

Tony gets tangled in his sheets in his haste to get out of bed, and it takes him ten minutes just to find a pair of comfortable track pants. At least they're his favourites, black with one gold and one red stripe down the legs.

 

He smooths his hair absently and heads down to the kitchen, wandering lazily in. No one else is around.

 

“Where are the others?” he wonders without preamble, scratching absently at the reactor.

 

“Natasha and Clint are on a mission. Left real early this morning. Bruce is still asleep and Thor said something that makes me think some poor group of D 'n' D players is going to end up shellshocked because he is taking things way too literally and seriously and is currently in his room sharpening a real broadsword...”

 

“...We should not let him take that to a D 'n' D game.”

 

“No. No, we really shouldn't.”

 

Tony can hear the grin in Steve's voice, though he can't see it because the blonde is facing the stove. What he can see is that beautiful expanse of shoulders, and bless Steve for not wearing a shirt. Bless him.

 

They stay in companionable silence for a little time, then Steve says;

 

“About the Gala.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes. The Gala is a ball being held by Charles Xavier to raise money for his 'school for the gifted', which they all know means 'school for the mutant'. So do most of the population, but they let Charles think he's pulled the wool over their eyes.

 

“No, Cap. I still don't think we should go, and I won't be.”

 

“But, Tony-”

 

“ _No_ ,” he says again. “I don't think it's a good idea for The Avengers to take sides in this thing.”

 

“What thing? There is no thing,” Steve says in confusion.

 

“Oh, Rogers,” Tony says, unconsciously condescending. “Of course there is. You just don't see it, because you want to believe everyone can get along and skip through the fields singing nursery rhymes.”

 

Steve rounds on him, eyes intense, arms folded across his perfect pecs.

 

“Enlighten me, then,” he says sarcastically. “Tell me about this 'thing'.”

 

“People are afraid. Afraid of us. Not so much me, because technically I'm just a guy in a suit. But you. Spiderman. The mutants. Terrifying. Something that can't be stopped just by... flipping a switch. We go, we send the message we're on their side – the mutants. And that makes people more afraid.”

 

Steve scowls at him.

 

“We _are_ on their side.”

 

“Maybe. Okay. Probably. But we can't afford to be _seen_ that way.”

 

Steve's mouth twists.

 

“Right, and it's all about how you're _seen_ , isn't it Stark?”

 

It's Tony's turn to scowl. It always seems to come back to the same argument with them.

 

“It's not just me, Cap. It's The Avengers. We're not just... us... any more. We're the team.”

 

Steve gives a snort of derisive laughter, his eyes flicking over Tony's frame and suddenly Tony wishes he wore a shirt.

 

“You? The team? You're nothing but yourself, Stark. You've made that plenty clear.”

 

“That's _not_ true,” Tony argues, bristling. It's unfair and they both know it. “Not any more.”

 

“A good team member follows orders,” Steve snaps, hands fisting against biceps.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony mutters, rolling his eyes.

 

The super soldier turns away, muttering to himself, then he speaks French, something which Tony pretty much attends to instantly these days. He only catches half of it over the sizzling of butter in the frypan.

 

“ _'ve got an ord... alright. ...eel down... ck my cock.”_

 

Tony stares at Steve's back, wide-eyed and unsure he's actually heard that.

 

“Sorry, w-”

 

“How many pancakes do you want?” Steve cuts across him.

 

“Uh,” Tony says stupidly.

 

Steve glances over his shoulder, arching a brow.

 

“Right, I'll just do your usual then,” he says with a snort.

 

\- - - - - - -

 

Three days later, when Tony has convinced himself he was imagining things, or that it was some throwback to a dream he hadn't remembered having (because it isn't as if he hasn't dreamed about Captain America before...) they're sparring. For once, all of them are there. Natasha is on the firing range with Clint, dodging arrows like she's made of rubber while he fires them off like he's a robot. Thor is teaching Bruce some hand to hand in slow motion.

 

On the other side of the room, Steve and Tony are sparring. Tony has his gauntlets and boots on, and just a skin of kevlar armour other than that. Steve's wearing the same armour, and he doesn't have his shield.

 

Tony knows this is Steve's favourite way to spar with him. The gauntlets and boots keep Tony's speed pretty level with Steve's, if not his strength, but he has the advantage of flight and his palm repulsors. Steve has the advantage of his combat brain and an uncanny ability to read his opponent. It makes for an even match. They regularly down one another, an even spread of wins across them, until Tony starts to tire. Steve doesn't tire as fast as Tony.

 

They can both tell when their matches are coming to a close. Steve starts to win and win and win, and sooner each time. Eventually, Tony steps back, hands upraised.

 

“Done, Cap. We're done,” he says and Steve sighs, but nods.

 

“Sorry, but I'm an old man, you know,” Tony teases.

 

Steve shakes his head, hands on belt buckle.

 

“Not that old, Stark.”

 

His eyes flick across the kevlar and as he's turning away, he reverts to his other form of armour.

 

“ _Not that old. Not old enough to stop me wanting to lay you down and fuck you silly...”_

 

And oh, how much hotter it sounds in French. Tony has to bite his lip almost enough to make it bleed in order to control himself. He's surprised Steve actually  _knows_ that use of the word 'fuck'. Lord knows he gets all flustered when someone just uses it as a cuss word.

 

Steve goes over to his trusty punching bag and Tony drags a gauntleted hand through his hair. He knows he didn't imagine it that time.

 

\- - - - - - -

 

It kept happening, after that. Less of the insults and more of the filthy dirty desires. Things that had Tony gasping. Things that had him fleeing to his room to take a cold shower – or a really,  _really_ hot one, his hands on his own flesh.

 

“ _I want to bend you double over this meeting table and fuck you right now.”_

 

“ _I want to strip you naked and stroke and lick all over you.”_

 

“ _I want to peel every panel of that damned suit off you and make you moan my name.”_

 

“ _I want to make you scream.”_

 

“ _I want to make you beg.”_

 

“ _I want.”_

 

“ _I want.”_

 

“ _I want.”_

 

And all of it in French. All of it low. All of it needy and covetous and, Tony knew,  _ashamed_ . Steve was ashamed of what he was saying. He was ashamed of what he wanted. 40's morality had him believing that every dirty thing he said, every dirty thing he wanted  _had_ to be in French, because it had to be hidden.

 

Tony started thinking of ways to show him it wasn't true. To show him it was okay. He wanted, too, but what he wanted was for Steve to be truthful with him without hiding it. Without the protection of Tony's supposed not understanding.

 

He tried to be good. He tried to stay in control. He tried to wait.  _But for fuck's sake, it was Captain Steven Rogers_ . Eventually, he lost the battle.

 

\- - - - - - -

 

They're alone when Tony snaps, and maybe that's why he can't hold out. Sparring again, they're both high on adrenaline, wired with the knowledge that Natasha and Clint are on a seriously dangerous mission, and wishing they could be there with them.

  
Tony jets up out of range of a jumping round-house kick, but Steve is faster and a hand comes up, wrapping around his ankle and pulling hard. Tony puts on his afterburners, but Steve just tightens his grip. The super soldier is lifted onto his toes briefly, before he accidentally snaps a vital power cord and the boot loses thrust.

 

It throws Tony off-balance, double the thrust on his right as what's now on his left and he does this weird sort of arc over Steve's head then almost crashes head-first into the mat. Steve arrests his fall, but overbalances himself. Tony lands flat on his back, Steve across him at right-angles.

 

Winded, Tony coughs.

 

“Holy fuck, Rogers. You're heavy.”

 

He's also merciless. Almost immediately as Tony speaks, he pushes himself around so he's stretched out along Tony, hands pinning the engineer's down above his head.

 

“I win,” he says.

 

“Yeah, good for you big boy,” Tony says, pretending his breathlessness is all because of the way Steve fell on him. “You also broke my boot. No more sparring for you today.”

 

Steve smirks.

 

“ _I can think of better ways to expend some energy,”_ he says in French.

 

Tony just stares at him, and it's not hard to look completely uncomprehending, because the fact that Steve's actually  _saying_ that is hard to comprehend.

 

“ _I just wish I could suck your cock and stroke your skin and hear you moan my name...”_

 

Tony sucks in a breath, closes his eyes momentarily. When he opens them again, Steve just bare inches from him, he realises he can't carry on the farce any more.

 

“ _Then do it, Rogers,”_ he replies in kind.

 

Steve's eyes go wide. He scrambles back, falling on his behind and stares at Tony like he's a poisonous spider in one of those stupid red boots. Tony sits up.

 

“ _Hi. I'm Tony Stark. My father was rich, self-important and self-involved. Naturally, I learned to speak French when I was about... oh... eleven?”_

 

Steve is completely speechless as Tony rattles this off, with almost perfect pronunciation. He doesn't move.

 

Tony sighs, then shifts over to situate himself in Steve's lap, straddling his hips.

 

“Don't look so worried, Cap,” he murmurs, pushing a hand up under Steve's tank top. The muscle there flexes deliciously. “I didn't mind.”

 

“Didn't...” Steve echoes weakly. “You... but... I... You u-understood... all those things... all... all that stuff I said?”

 

“Yep,” Tony affirms, watching the horror dawn on Steve's face. “Hey, hey, hey. Don't look like that.”

 

“I'm real sorry, Tony. I didn't mean for you to know any of that,” he said uncomfortably.

 

“Do I look like I mind?”

 

Tony's hand slides higher, tugging the tank top upwards.

 

“All those things you said...” he muses, watching each inch of revealed flesh. “I'd let you do it.”

 

Steve's eyes search his, seeking truth, or maybe seeking a lie, looking to be told there's something wrong with it. But Tony just smirks at him.

 

“Tony, I'm sorry. I-”

 

“You're not listening, Cap.”

 

Tony pushes forwards, hands against Steve's chest pressing him to the floor.  
  
“I'm not. I'm not sorry at all.”

 

He kisses Steve, deep and eager, and it takes the blond a long moment to respond. Even then, he's hesitant, unsure. Tony draws back a little, watching Steve through lidded eyes.

 

“It's alright,” he assures.

 

“I've never... done this,” Steve admits. “First I was skinny, then I was at war, then I was under the ice and then... well... It's so hard to find anyone...”

 

Tony smiles a little.

 

“If _that's_ true,” he says slowly. “Where have you learnt all those dirty things you've been saying...?”

 

Steve clears his throat a little, glancing away.

 

“Jarvis helped me out with that...”

 

Tony blinks, then he laughs. Almost immediately, Steve's face goes shuttered and he starts to roll away. Tony holds him in place.

 

“Sorry, Steve. Sorry. I didn't mean to laugh at you.”

 

“Sure you did. Everything's a joke to you, isn't it? Well... funny things are. And I suppose this is funny.”

 

“No, Steve. I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at the idea of Jarvis looking up... finding...”  
  
Steve studies him, and a vague half-smile begins to curve across his mouth.

 

“I suppose that is pretty funny.”

 

“Hysterical,” Tony purrs and kisses him again. This time he responds eagerly, and he doesn't resist when Tony pulls off his shirt.

 

It's beautiful, that expanse of perfect skin and sculpted muscle. Immediately, Tony wants to touch, so he pulls off his gauntlets, chucking them almost carelessly aside to stroke his hands across Steve's torso. Steve flexes and arches beautifully, his own hands quick, now, to rid Tony of his shirt.

 

“One of those things you said,” Tony murmurs, leaning down. “You wanted to lick me all over. Well. Feeling's mutual.”

 

He shimmies down a little so he can drag his tongue slowly up Steve's torso. Again he does it and again until Steve arches to it and gives a long sigh. Then he brings his mouth to a nipple and that's when Steve really comes alive, a soft moan easing from his throat.

 

He's a quick learner, too. He brings his hands to Tony's chest, thumbs rubbing across his nipples. Tony murmurs his appreciation, encouraging Steve to continue his stroking. The better it feels, the more attention Tony pays Steve. Not that it's a chore.

 

“The first time you spoke to me in French,” Tony murmurs. “You said you wanted to make me suck your cock...”  
  
Steve nods wordlessly.

 

“That's an order I'll follow easily.”

 

Tony moves down, stripping Steve's pants and shoes. He drapes himself over Steve's legs, one hand smoothing out over the man's belly. He smirks up at Steve, watching the slight blush that reddens his neck, then dips his head, tongue, lips and teeth working to draw uncertain moans and soft keening from the super soldier.

 

“It's okay,” he pauses long enough to murmur. “No one can hear you. And Jarvis locked the door.”

 

Steve manages a laugh.

 

“Of course he did,” he says. “Of course.”

 

Then he loses his tongue in moans and sighs, body arching deliciously on the mat in response to the attentions of Tony's mouth. One of his hands curls into Tony's hair in silent pleading and Tony hums in response. Eventually, he slides up Steve's body, feathering kisses along his jawline. Steve's hands are warm and sure against his hips, pulling them down against his own instinctively.

 

“Now, then,” Tony murmurs, perfectly groomed goatee stroking along Steve's jaw as he brings his lips to the man's ear. “Tell me again what you want to do. This time in English.”

 

Steve clears his throat, jaw working.

 

“Come on, baby. You like giving orders so much.”

 

“I want...”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“I want... to f...” He can't manage it. He grits his teeth. “Right where you are. Just like this,” he adds.

 

Tony smirks.

 

“You want me to _ride_ you, baby?” he asks.

 

Steve nods, his fingers tightening a little against Tony's skin. Tony smiles and stands, stripping off the last of his clothes and going over to the first aid cabinet. It probably isn't completely ideal, but he finds a moisturising cream of some sort that he can make do with. He returns to his seat before Steve can change his mind.

 

It doesn't seem that he will, since he sits up immediately, hands sliding up Tony's back and head dropping to press open-mouthed kisses across a shoulder. His palms are flat against Tony's shoulder blades, holding him in place. He rather likes it.

 

“You're gonna have to help me out, baby,” Tony says.

 

“I know,” Steve says, which sends a bit of a thrill down Tony's spine. Good old Jarvis. “Just... Just tell me if I... get it wrong,” he adds.

 

“Sure, baby, sure,” Tony agrees. He can't imagine stopping Steve for anything.

 

Steve coats his fingers and Tony arches his hips, angling them agreeably as Steve slides his palm down his spine, settling it upon the curve of his backside.

 

“Do... Should I...”

 

“Just go with it, baby,” Tony says softly. “I swear I'll let you know if you mess up.”  
  
Steve's face grows more uncertain and Tony is quick to add; “But you won't. Steve. You won't. You've seen videos, right?”

 

A nod and Steve slides his hand further, rubbing a fingertip inquiringly against Tony's entrance. The billionaire sighs, dipping his head down to the junction of Steve's neck and shoulder and his mouth works absently against the perfect skin. A cut-off groan spills from his throat when Steve pushes a finger in.

 

Tony's encouraging whines and shuddering affirmations tell Steve he's doing alright, and soon, with the addition of a couple more fingers, he has the billionaire ready.

 

“S-Stop,” Tony says when he feels it. “Enough, baby, that's enough.”

 

Steve pauses, withdrawing his fingers, and his hands settle on Tony's hips again.

 

“ _I want...”_ he says in French.

 

“ _I know. It's okay. You can have it,”_ Tony replies in kind. He lifts himself up, a hand coming between them to position Steve. Then he lowers his hips and feels Steve powerful frame tense deliciously beneath him. He takes Steve as deep as he can, then he stills, puffing, waiting for his body to adjust.

 

“Tony,” Steve keens, pawing at his thighs and his hips.  
  
“In English, Steve. Tell me.”

 

“I... I want... you to move... to... r-ride me... like you said...”

 

Tony smirks and begins to move. It's a fantastic angle. He can see and feel every shift and twitch of Steve's impressive body, watch each quiver of his lips and flutter of his eyelashes as he moans. His hips flex, rolling shallowly up to meet each of Tony's movements.

 

He's a responsive lover, once he gets past the initial first-time embarrassment. His chest rumbles with low moans and growly repetitions of Tony's name. Tony works hard for him, wanting to be sure he enjoys this, his first time.

 

Soon, Steve rolls him, instinct taking over entirely. His hand slides up one of Tony's legs, hitching it up and using it for leverage as he works his hips against Tony's.

 

“Steve...” is about all he can manage to voice before he forgets how to form words and dissolves into moans and whimperings. He brings his hand between them, wrapping it around his length, and strokes in time with Steve's thrusts.

 

It isn't long before Steve drops his head to the crook of Tony's neck and gives a long, drawn-out moan of his name, his release drawing his body taut like a bow. Tony is seconds behind him, his own moan fluttering through Steve's mussed hair.

 

It takes him a few moments to come down, but when he blinks out of it, he grins lazily at Tony, stroking his hair.

 

“So, in case it slipped your notice, I speak French,” Tony offers helpfully.

 

“Caught that,” Steve replies, and they laugh and it's good.

 

\- - - - - - -

 

And that was how it had happened, and Tony couldn't find it in him to regret that he hadn't waited until Steve was brave enough to speak his mind in English. Now, they spoke more in French than anything else, and it pissed the others off no end.

 

Natasha was certain they were fucking, but Clint argued they couldn't possibly be – that was just ridiculous. Steve and Tony didn't set either of them straight.

 

But when Steve wanted something, and they weren't in private (in private he just demanded what he wanted, in English or in French, and Tony gave it to him), he had a way of letting Tony know.

 

“Parlez-vous Français?” he'd say, with a grin or a knowing look.

 

“Oui,” Tony would reply, his own grin nearly splitting his face.

 

And they'd have to find somewhere private pretty quickly after that.

 

~ Fin ~


End file.
